


Dandelions

by Auredosa



Category: Wizard101
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Closure, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auredosa/pseuds/Auredosa
Summary: Chester Droors returns to Ravenwood after all those years.
Relationships: Cyrus Drake & Chester Droors
Kudos: 9





	Dandelions

**Author's Note:**

> The life professors called from every world in the Spiral probably felt some kind of guilt when they learned Malistaire went on a crazy rampage after the death of his wife. Headcanon; Droors was one of these professors. Also, in this universe, a celebration/graduation ceremony for the young wizard is held after they defeat Malistaire in Dragonspyre.

Chester Droors was just getting used to life in Wysteria when he received that letter from Ravenwood.

He was younger then, full of dreams and eager to discover the wonders of earth magic. The crowds of bright-faced students in their loose robes was a joyful sight. No longer was he confined by the limits of his textbooks and stifled by safety measures. Now he could share the beauty and resilience of nature to everyone in the city, how it could withstand even the cruelest of forces, because where there was a living spirit, there was the ability to create something real.

He would guide each pupil, and be there to catch them when they fell. They could run to him and know they were in good hands. He was confident in his abilities-he would soon be teaching Wysteria’s next generations of earth benders, he _had_ to be.

He was younger, then, and so much more naïve.

_Merle Ambrose_

_Ravenwood, Wizard City_

_Dear Chester Droors,_

_Greetings from Wizard City! I am Merle Ambrose, headmaster of the Ravenwood School of Magic. I’ve heard of your many accomplishments, and let me be the first from outside Wysteria to congratulate you on becoming Pigswick Academy’s newest earth professor!_

_I’m reaching out to you because I am in desperate need of your help. Our own life professor, Mrs. Sylvia Drake, has fallen gravely ill. She is the most proficient theurgists I have ever seen, and the pestilence that stole her ability to heal herself or even recover in the slightest is beyond any of us here._

_I have called upon others from around the Spiral, as Mrs. Drake’s condition has worsened in the past few weeks. While we completely understand that you have your duties at Pigswick, we here in Ravenwood would be eternally grateful if you traveled to Wizard City and lent us your aid in our time of need._

_Sincerely,_

_Merle Ambrose, Headmaster of Ravenwood School of Magic._

He’d always wanted to visit Wizard City, but not like this.

Not when everything was blanketed by a sheet of grey snow and the looming threat of a life being taken too soon hung over their heads. Not when the bustling lively school was quiet and hushed. The colors of comfort and stability were gone, replaced by the cold and the fear.

At first, he tried to ignore it. There were so many of them; failure was not an option with half a dozen wizards working around the clock. It was easier to push those thoughts away while he was being pushed around by the others, and to be frank, he didn’t even mind.

When the worst doubts consumed his thoughts, he began insisting that there was still room to make mistakes. He was just hired-and there were others that could made up for his incompetence. That wizened apothecarist from Mooshu would know what to do, or the fairies would give her a blessing of undying. He told himself their collective efforts would be enough. There was safety in numbers, a sense of relief from knowing there were others to lean on in that stuffy, cramped bedroom. But they never out crowded the _fear._

It weighed heavily in the back of his mind. Always covering them. Always there for him to see when Droors couldn’t bring himself to look at her pale, fever-flushed face and looked to the heavens for answers. Always there when her husband, who refused to leave her side, stared them down with a deep resentment of _“Why can’t you save her?”_

And he tried to put himself in the weary necromancer’s shoes. He tried to remind himself that his tears should’ve been for pity, not for frustration. His job was not to argue with her husband, it was to make her better before spring arrived. To show his skill as an able professor who would not fail at a task as simple as curing a stubborn cold. He tried to prove himself a worthy earth bender, staying behind after the other teachers had left for the day, until _he_ kicked him out of their bedroom, insisting he was better off taking care of his wife himself.

How funny it was, he’d thought, that Mrs. Sylvia Drake was wed to a necromancer. Death and decay remaining at her side from sunup to sun down, her greatest comfort. A refuge from the chaos of disheveled foreigners fussing about above her. It took up more space than the emptied bottles of medicines that didn’t work and the people working tirelessly to find and give her ones that did. The entire room burned with fever and the harsh glow of the fireplace.

One night, as he was walking down the corridor, having been evicted for the evening, he heard the voice of his twin brother-almost an exact opposite of his kin, what with the cheerful yellow robes, bushy brown hair, and blue eyes that were filled with hope and optimism.

“They’re doing everything they can, can’t you see that? You cannot treat them with this disrespect!”

“Either they’ll save her, or they will not. There is no ‘trying!’ I am the master of death! I would do an infinitely better job at keeping my wife from it than they could ever hope!”

A door slammed, and Droors was frozen in place. A set of tired feet trudged down the hall. He should leave, lest he seemed an eavesdropper on their heated conversation. One angry Drake sibling was unnerving enough. Droors slipped on his coat, and grabbed the cold doorknob-

“I’m terribly sorry you had to hear that.” A defeated voice sighed.

Droors looked at the man’s tired face. His patience was snuffed out by exhaustion. He smiled sadly at him.

“He’s just a little worked up, that’s all. He and I are entirely in your debt for what you’ve done.” His eyes widened and a realization of familiarity hit him. “You’re that new earth instructor from Wysteria, aren’t you? I don’t believe we’ve formally met.”

“Chester Droors, an honor to make your acquaintance.” Droors replied, shaking his hand. “I’m only doing my job, Professor Drake.”

“Cyrus, if you would. You can’t imagine how irritated my brother gets when we’re both in the same room,” the older man chuckled.

“Of course.” Droors fastened the buttons on his coat. “I’d better make myself scarce. I’m afraid staying late to treat her further is doing more harm than good.”

“Your efforts are appreciated nonetheless.” Cyrus looked out the window, onto the darkened streets blanketed with snow. “I hope you’ve found a reliable route back to your inn. I fear this winter will not be a kind one.”

“Worry not about me.” Droors opened the door, letting in a chilly gust that he’d otherwise be scolded for. “Be well, then. I hope to see the three of you tomorrow.”

As he was about to step out, he said to Cyrus.

“May Merlin have mercy on Sylvia.”

That winter, on a quiet white morning, after all life had long since withered away outside, Sylvia Drake died.

It crushed him. His breath became trapped in his throat when he saw her still figure, wool bedcovers folded up to her shoulders. Her skin was as white as snow, a content smile on her face. Her thin brown hair fell down her shoulders, she looked like a seraph that glided out of a painting. And like the seraph, she, too, was in a heaven beyond. It was a beautiful, ugly truth. Her pale face shone like moonstone; around her, only darkness remained, spreading from each corner of the room. The glow of the fire went out, casting everything in cold shadows.

Sylvia Drake was claimed by death.

He knew it was a possibility, but never an option. He’d forgotten that death, too, was part of the cycle of life.

In the dim room, he was chilled to the bone, but Droors felt the growing fires. Malistaire was kneeling over his beloved, quiet sobs ringing in Droors’s ears. Cyrus looked onward, silenced in shock. That warm hope was gone, replaced with something untamable with words. He didn’t even look at Droors, who suddenly didn’t feel deserving of standing among them. He wasn’t a healer or a skilled earth bender. He wasn’t a friend or someone who could be relied upon. He was a failure.

Cold blue eyes stared down at him with the spark of an inferno.

Merlin have mercy on Sylvia.

When he finally left Wizard City, he felt like he’d left a forest to burn down behind him.

Years later, news of Malistaire being laid to rest in Dragonspyre reached Wysteria, through tales told of glory and tragedy.

He’d almost forgotten about that bitter man, his brother, and people they’d left behind. He thought he’d pushed it down into the very bottom of his memory, where it wouldn’t grab hold of him at the forefront of his mind. But hearing his name brought every ounce of guilt and shame up to the surface. Droors almost felt himself stupid. How could he forget? The characters of an unfortunate tragedy kept replaying the story in his mind, and he wanted to close the book.

Thank Merlin that Wysteria was not plagued by his reign of terror, otherwise he’d have been asked to go to that supposed celebration at Ravenwood. He didn’t want to see _anybody_ from Ravenwood, to be quite frank. In their minds, he was nothing more than a wide-eyed earth bender whose skills were useless when it counted. He was a failure, he was a foreigner, and he certainly wouldn’t be _welcome._

That week, the stories continued to spread across Pigswick. He was surprised that the students of Pigswick would find reason to care for another youth from a world they didn’t know. Names of people they’d never met flew from their mouths as if they were recounting a play; Malistaire, Sylvia, Cyrus-

Malistaire, Sylvia, Merlin have mercy.

He almost considered asking Belladonna about it, just to satisfy his curiosity. Then again, she was never one to care about affairs even outside of the academy. So, he began listening to the stories told from student to student.

“You know him? The wizard that defeated him in Dragonia?”

“It’s Dragon _spyre,_ silly, and yeah, I met him in Krokotopia, while I was doing my equilibrium-er- _balance_ studies there before they hired Professor Pepper.”

“Are you gonna’ go to the big bash?”

“You bet! I have to thank him for saving the world, duh! He was a big help while I was over there. I can’t just pretend I don’t know him after all that’s happened!”

That was enough, Droors decided, turning away from the two students conversing around the corner. He slouched onto the marble bench and held his head in his hands. It seemed that a significant amount of Pigswicks’s students were going to the celebration at Ravenwood. A tiny voice in his head whispered that he should join them.

Malistiare, Sylvia, Cyrus.

After all that’s happened.

He had to go. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he brought the shadows of the past to light. He was older now, full of regrets, but willing to make things right. If a mere child could save entire worlds, then he could save a single connection with one man, right?

Then, the doubts began to rise. Would he even be allowed to step foot in Wizard City, after what he’d failed to do so long ago? What if the person he sought to speak with wasn’t even there, having disappeared just like his brother?

No, those weren’t going to stop him. Even if he only apologized to Headmaster Ambrose, it was better than letting the past haunt him forever. This was his fault, and he would own it. He had to try and make things right. He would try.

This, he kept in mind the day that followed, as he twisted his old Spiral key in the lock, grabbed the knob, and stepped through the door.

The must of old oak engulfed his senses. He remembered the ornate ring of stone-arced doors lining the interior of the Great Bartleby, leading to realms far and wide. It was crowded with inhabitants from each one. Droors was about to grab his key, only to find it disintegrating into gold rust. He feared that would happen, given the fact he hadn’t used it in sixteen years. He’d have to ask someone for a spare, or perhaps one of his own students would be willing to let him use theirs.

Forgetting the matter for now, Droors exited the chamber, and descended from the tree into the school’s sanctuary. The celebration was in full swing. The yard was decorated with crepe ribbons and bright colorful flags from each school. The symbols were unfamiliar, and he barely made the connection between them and the schools of magic at Pigswick. He supposed the Savior of the Spiral had attended each of them at some point or another. Static lively chatter filled his ears, and faces that he had traces of memory of dotted the field, but none were the face he was looking for.

Well, he was here at the Savior’s celebration. It would only be proper to greet and thank them at some point. Perhaps he’d find his certain somewhere wherever that young wizard was. He began towards a curved wooden stage where a crowd was gathered-

“Chester Droors, is that truly you?”

He stopped in his tracks at the call piercing through the noise. He knew that voice, but it sounded different. Hardened and tempered somehow.

Droors turned around and came face to face with the brother of the man whose wife he had failed to save. In his mind, everything around them fell to surrendered silence. But he was stronger now. He would try and succeed.

“It’s been so long . . . Cyrus Drake.”

Sixteen years. In the time since he’d last been in the presence of Cyrus Drake, his blue eyes had frozen over. His auburn hair was gone, and his face was pinched down in lines, a stern expression crossing his face. He looked Droors up and down, deducing what had become of the hopeful earth professor since they’d gone their separate ways.

The two men stood there for one stalemated instant, too proud to shake each other’s hands and too ashamed for a warm embrace. Above them, the watchful eye of Bartleby looked down at them, the memories of the past meeting the prospect of a future in flames or forgiveness.

Cyrus shook his head. “Let us get away from here. I can’t stand the noise of these nosy guests.”

“Of course.” He followed the taller man away from the plaza where the festivities were, pushing aside the decorations. They passed one of the schoolhouses, covered in emerald green banners, where his gaze lingered as he noticed the familiar leaf carved into the doors. Further ahead, they stopped. There stood a hulking mistwood tree with its single eye closed. There was a wooden bench in the middle of a patch of neatly cut grass, dotted with young yellow dandelions and their spiny leaves. Hazy golden light fell through the tree’s leaves and dappled the bench in drops of sunset. Droors vaguely remembered seeing the cyclops tree in the past, before the bench became half-sunken into the ground and the pavement wasn’t so weathered with age. To his left down the path, there was a wide platform, looking towards the blue sky beyond.

Something was missing . . .

He took a seat. He knew that balcony wasn’t there when he’d been in Ravenwood all those years ago. The schools of magic were called different things here, and he struggled to recall which ones he’d seen from the courtyard. Droors tried to remember when he’d first been summoned, and where he’d met Malistiare Drake . . .

“There was a school there.” He stated, looking in the direction of the platform. “Whatever happened to it?”

“That would’ve been the school of death.” Cyrus curtly replied. “Much has happened since you were last here. It broke off from the rest of Ravenwood after . . .” 

He fell silent. Cyrus was looking in the opposite direction-towards the school they’d passed. What did they call it here? The school of life, he recalled. Why was he looking there?

“ _Our own life professor, Mrs. Sylvia Drake, has fallen gravely ill.”_

He’d heard the stories: Malistaire had gone mad after his wife passed, destroying the school he once loved and losing himself in forbidden necromancy. He’d heard of the young wizard who’d defeated the master of death at only a fraction of his age.

His pity was replaced by a spark of rage. Everyone was here celebrating the Savior of the Spiral, but had anyone considered that a life had still been lost? Villain or not, that man everyone called menace had a wife, a brother, had lived and was _real._ He’d seen who he was before, a compassionate and devoted husband underneath the bite in his voice. He knew with certainty in that war-ruined world, the so-called _hero_ had murdered a man who was crying out for help. They’d murdered Cyrus’s brother, as mercilessly as disease stole that man’s wife.

And suddenly, Droors understood that this was beyond his failing to save Sylvia Drake. Cyrus had lost more than his sister-in-law that day. He lost a good friend, and his dear brother to the despair of his heart. Malistaire Drake hadn’t died in Dragonspyre; he’d died in spirit long ago because of Droors’s incompetence. The bitter man sitting next to Droors had lost everything, because of him. The remnants of their peaceful lives before surrounded him every day.

“I . . . I’m sorry. About your brother, and for Sylvia.” The glow of the trees and sunlight blurred together. “Malistaire . . . his life mattered, too. I’m sorry that everyone will remember him for the wrong reasons.”

“For everything.” His voice was hoarse, a whisper. “I’m sorry, for everything.”

Sixteen years of regret and shame.

Under the watch of the great Bartleby, the two men sat in silence, between the memories and houses of death and life.

“. . . She wasn’t angry, you know, when she realized she’d never recover.” Cyrus began, his voice far away and distant.

“She wasn’t?”

“No.” He sat against the rough bark. “She was glad to have met so many new friends that were willing to return the favor. And how her class was able carry on smoothly even without a proper instructor.”

He paused. “. . . She told Malistaire and I one thing before she left. She told us not to be upset. Her time had come, and she wanted us to embrace it with open arms.” His voice trembled. “She was glad that she didn’t have to be alone, and-“

He looked away from Droors with a glassy gaze, ashamed. “And she made he and I swear we’d always look out for each other. That was our last promise to her, and . . . I didn’t keep it.”

“How so?”

“I shut everyone out from that day onward. I left my brother alone to be consumed by madness. By the time I realized I should’ve gone after him . . . it was much too late.” He wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe.

“The last thing we ever did was fight. And that was no one’s fault but my own.”

Droors looked away. There was something deeply wrong in seeing this stubborn, reserved man break down like a child. There were real tears glistening on his face, true grief for Droors to see. Empathy and pity overwhelmed him. Suddenly, Cyrus appeared to him as a student of his, afraid and ashamed.

And then, he decided; He would be there for him, as he would’ve them.

“I don’t think so.” Cyrus turned to him, confused. “You were close to her as well, were you not?”

“Yes, but-“

“But you fail to even consider your own feelings rational. None would blame you for having acted the way you did. Not even Sylvia.”

He placed a hand on his shoulder. “And, in the end, you returned for him, didn’t you?” Cyrus stared at him, brows furrowed in conflict.

“Your brother might not have recognized it then, but you pulled him back into the fold. By sending that young wizard.” He took a breath, desperate to show him their hopeful reality.

“You wanted to show him a better way. Your greatest wish was to see him happy again. And in the end, you helped him find peace. He can finally rest now, thanks to you.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Then, in a humbled voice, Cyrus muttered something so quietly only Droors heard.

“I . . . suppose you’re right. I did come back for him. Even if that was the last time we’d see each other.” Cyrus turned to Droors, the tiniest of smiles on his face.

“Thank you for bringing me to my senses. And . . . my apologies, too.”

It was Droors’s turn to be bemused. He withdrew his hand and raised his brows. “Pardon?”

“All those years of being enraged towards those who only tried to help her . . . She’s gone now, that much is true. But I cannot blame those who were only doing what they could.”

He nodded to the schoolhouses neighboring them. “The cycle of life and death goes on, does it not?”

“And the cycle always begins anew.”

They smiled at each other. Neither expected they’d find closure in each other’s company. In mutual content, they dropped gazes, admiring the dusk-dusted grounds of the school. The bustle of the celebration in the yard had faded, leaving the soft rustle of the branches above.

“My, has evening fallen so soon?” Cyrus mused, looking around. “I can’t hear the squeals of children anymore.”

“It would seem so.” Droors chuckled. “I’d best return to the academy. You know how it is.” He stood up, reaching for his key-and suddenly remembered he hadn’t figured out a way home. _Merlin’s beard._ He rubbed the metal dust between his fingers in his robe pocket. He’d have to ask Cyrus for a spare-

“No one said that the burden of a professor was a light one.” Then, smirking, he added, “I’ll be there with my key in a moment.”

“Why-how did you know-“

“We conjurers have the ability to sense these sorts of things.” Cyrus stated matter-of-factually. “Go ahead, now. I’ll meet you in the door chamber.”

Droors shook his head in amusement. He began on the cobble path back to the plaza, taking time in his strides. The yard was quiet save for students taking down the streamers and flags. A cool summer breeze was passing through the sanctuary. In the soft light of dusk, the entire campus seemed to glow with the coming of spring.

He pushed open the heavy bark door, and was once again in the grand door chamber. It seemed so much bigger when it was empty. His footsteps echoed up the hollow trunk that twisted in knots of ancient wood to the top of the ceiling, still sounding behind him when he stopped in front of the door marked _Wysteria_.

Cyrus appeared behind him, yellow-bronze key in hand. “You’d be surprised at how many visitors misplaced their own.” He tutted, unlocking the door. The clay buildings of Wysteria appeared before them, where the moon was already high in the sky. The familiar smell of city flora wafted through the door.

“Chester.”

Cyrus held out a bundle of bright yellow dandelions, carefully tied with a long blade of grass. It was something a child would make, and reminded Droors of his younger days picking plants and weaving them into crowns for friends.

“For me?” Chester chuckled, eying them with amusement. “What’s this, then?”

“A parting gift.” Cyrus replied with shy earnest. He gently pressed them into Droors’s gloved hand. Then he grumbled, “I needed them off my grounds, anyway.”

Droors knew the language of flowers. Dandelions; symbolic of healing and new beginnings. He studied them in his hand, tearing up with grateful relief. He squinted, and let an honest beam spread across his face. He hoped Cyrus knew he appreciated the gesture. The former faced him with a knowing warmth Droors hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Come visit Wizard City when you have the chance. Of your own accord, preferably.”

Droors took a step across the bridge between worlds. “Of course. Goodbye, Cyrus.” He clutched the flowers in his hand. “Be well.”

**Author's Note:**

> You know, had I known that National Dandelion Day was a thing and is celebrated on April 5th, I would've had this story out so much sooner. Oh well.
> 
> Expect more about these two. I think their history with each other will make for great stories to come. As always, thank you for reading!


End file.
